


O Negative

by granger_danger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Campy, Clueless Harry, Explicit Language, F/M, Fun, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, No Smut, POV Pansy Parkinson, Resolved Sexual Tension, The Age Difference is Bilateral Because Vampires, Vampire Bites, Vampire Sex, Vampire!Pansy, Vampire!Sirius, blood is like drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27299059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger/pseuds/granger_danger
Summary: Pansy Parkinson likes Varsity athletes. They usually taste better.But nobody is going to drink Sirius Black's godson on his watch, even if that means he has to share his stash of the good stuff.A fairly campy Halloween Vampire AU written for Fall Fumble 2020
Relationships: Sirius Black/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 28
Kudos: 76
Collections: Fall Fumble 2020





	O Negative

**Author's Note:**

> Gentle warning that, though this fic has no explicit sex in it, it does have variations of the word fuck in it 25 times. Vampire!Pansy wanted to swear. 
> 
> It feels remiss not to mention that, though this was intended to be and largely is a campy romp, we are at a moment in the pandemic/current events cycle/winter is coming feels where ... writing anything is hard, and the ennui just seems to seep into any available crack. So, you know, please forgive me for some mild existentialism and uneven writing in this piece. 😅 We are all getting through the best we can! 
> 
> Thank you to provocative-envy, scullymurphy, and Pacific Rimbaud for collaborating on Fall Fumble 2020 and for preserving my sanity in these pandemic times. I truly don't know how I would have gotten through without you all! 
> 
> Special thanks to Pacific Rimbaud for suggesting Nina Simone as the musical choice, and to the ever-wonderful dreamsofdramione for letting me pick her brain about tags and ratings in the middle of the dang night.
> 
> This work is unbetaed. Rest assured that everything that happens herein is entirely my fault. 😂 Apologies in advance to one Harry Potter.

_Harry_

_You can't ignore me forever_

_Please call me back_

_At least answer my texts_

**i can’t believe you**

_I know it seems bad but_

**i really liked her**

**i was going to ask her to be my girlfriend**

**you really fucked up this time.**

_You’re mad, I know_

_But you have to trust me_

_You dodged a bullet_

_Truly!_

**it really didn’t sound like you minded taking that bullet.**

_Jesus christ you heard us???_

**i’m pretty sure everyone on the block heard you.**

**she’s less than half your age, sirius. you could be her father.**

_It_ 's _more complicated than it looks…_

**what the fuck??**

_We’re both consenting adults._

**you know, hermione was right**

**you can’t ever just take responsibility for your actions**

**i still can’t believe you fucked my date**

* * *

**Three Days Earlier, Halloween Night**  
  
Pansy Parkinson likes Varsity athletes. They usually taste better.

The kid is pretty sweet, really, if a little tragic: handsome enough, with green eyes and black hair that always sticks up in the back, sarcastic but pretty clueless overall, next level mommy issues. She’d almost feel bad about her plans for him if she wasn’t going to give him the sex of his life before she drank him dry.

Not because she’s particularly generous. More because she’s bored. Like, centuries of bullshit bored.

Shit. No. No fucking way.

She double-checks the address he gave her just in case, but this has to be it. A crumbling Gothic mansion with shouting co-eds and Top 40 rap spilling out of it, the decaying front lawn already littered with red Solo cups. And if the aesthetic weren’t enough, she can fucking _smell_ it. He’d said the party was at his godfather’s house, which had honestly seemed pretty weird.

He’d neglected to mention that his godfather was also a fucking vampire.

She lingers at the margins of the lawn, mashes her rose gold iPhone to let Harry know she’s here.

“Hey!” He’s trotting over, smiling down at her from the edge of the yard, and she almost cringes at his earnestness. He’s the human equivalent of a grass stain, fresh and sincere and messy. His university track and field team warm-ups and crooked grin are nothing new, but the haphazard zombie make-up is. She wonders idly if she can convince him to wash it off before they do the do. “Nice costume!”

Pansy isn’t, strictly speaking, wearing a costume. But she has let herself indulge in stereotypes, filtered through the lens of her natural inclinations. Her fangs are fully revealed, and she has already been complimented on their realism three times on her walk over. For fun, a smoky eye and a wine-dark lipstick as opposed to her usual cat-eye and matte red; the dark lip will mean she won’t have to retouch after spilling his blood. Below the neck, she’s opted for a red velour babydoll dress with a high-necked black lace collar and a daring hemline over fishnets and a pair of perilous black stilettos with an ankle strap and a peep toe. Fuck capes, though, capes are for losers. No self-respecting vampire has worn one since the 1960s.

“You look beautiful, Pans.” Her French bob is immaculate, as always, but that doesn’t stop him from tucking her hair behind her ear: classic Harry. He’s always doing something cheesy but he’s weirdly shy. It’s taken her weeks of dedicated flirting to work up to a chance at privacy. “But you must be freezing. Let’s head inside.”

Pansy declines to inform him that she has the resting body temperature of a freshwater gecko and that this house in particular is the last place she wants to be. Fuck if she’s going to let some other undead asshole drink Harry’s wholesome, corn-fed, 4-minute-mile blood or otherwise step on her carefully laid plans.

“Actually.” She employs her most hypnotic, seductive tone, extends one stiletto-manicured hand to toy with the edge of his tracksuit jacket. “What do you say we get the fuck out of here? Go back to my place?”

His Adam’s apple bobs, and even in the dim moonlight she can see the veins in his throat, almost sense the thready bleat of his rising pulse. But his face deflates like a balloon. “This is _my_ party, Pans. You know I can’t just _leave._ _”_

“Fiiiiiine.” She rolls her eyes. Now there will be turf negotiations. Hassle. Delay. Possibly, it could get ugly, but she’s in too deep and far too hungry to just let this go without trying. “But I can’t wait to get you alone.” She adjusts her little black backpack, patent leather, in which she has concealed a breast pump and a host of plastic bottles, for blood drainage and storage purposes. If she’s thorough and doesn’t gorge too much, a fresh kill can get her through at least two weeks.

Harry rubs at his hair, shoots her a sheepish smile. “I, uh. I’m pretty sure that could be arranged. Later. First, a beer.” He takes her hand, so shyly that it’s almost annoying, and tugs her towards the veranda, past a slew of additional track and field zombies, some of them already stumbling, and a girl with wavy blonde pigtails who appears to be dressed as a sexy pizza.  
  
“So this is where you live?” Pansy peers up at the rickety mansion, where he probably has a second-story bedroom with decor that hasn’t been refreshed since he was eleven. She can see it in her mind’s eye already: a narrow twin bed, shelves of high school track and field trophies, the lingering smell of rank socks.

“Uh, kind of. Sirius — that’s my godfather — it’s his house, and I lived here after my parents… yeah. And I still live here kind of, I mean, I have a room at the frat house now, but I also still have a room here. And Sirius is pretty cool about letting us have off-campus parties sometimes.” Behind her closed lips, Pansy runs her tongue over the edge of one fang. That’s a somewhat dubious claim to householdship, but it should be strong enough to hold.

Hopefully.

They’ve reached the threshold, the bit that requires finesse. She leans her shoulders back against a pillar, tilts her head coyly. “So aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Harry’s forehead wrinkles and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I mean, it’s a party, I already invited you…”

She looks up at him with a playful pout. “Don’t you _want_ me to come in? Don’t you want to _ask_ me?” It’s the perfectly calibrated pitch, the precisely correct amount of flirtatious whine. She curls her talons around his track jacket again, pulls him a step closer to her. She’s annoying herself at this point, but it doesn’t matter if it makes any sense to him. He’ll do it anyway. He has the general demeanor of a neglected black lab puppy; he doesn’t expect girls to make sense, which works to her advantage.

“You’re ridiculous.” He shakes his head at her fondly. “But cute.” He boops her button nose as she continues to pout. “Pansy Parkinson, will you please come in?”  
  
She makes it across the threshold without any resistance, no steam whatsoever, absolutely zero tingly burning death-is-near sensation, so it’s all going to plan, really.

Except there _he_ is, lounging against the kitchen island, smoking a clove cigarette, an abomination which cannot mask his distinctly undead musk. She’s never known anyone over the age of 21 to smoke a clove cigarette, let alone an immortal, and she immediately discredits him. Whoever the fuck this douchebag is, he’s a fool, and fools never come between her and fresh blood.

“Sirius,” Harry says, and his casual happiness would be viscerally painful if she were not so skilled at compartmentalization. “This is Pansy.”

Sirius looks up at her, shaking dark curls from his silver eyes and exhaling a plume of relatively artful smoke. He regards her with mischief and lifts her pale hand, but she sees the deadly flicker in his eyes, the danger behind his teasing smile. “Ah, so you’re the famous Pansy. What a pleasure.” He still has an English accent, upper-crust endeavoring not to be, so he’s either a hack or a newb. It sounds natural enough that she’s guessing the latter.

“You’re both vampires,” Harry says, casual and matter-of-fact, and Pansy startles until she realizes he’s referring to their costumes, or lack thereof. That’s the best thing about Halloween, the ability to go out into the open, undisguised but unrevealed. Clever. Fun. Slightly dangerous.

Harry is stuffing a cupcake with a jaunty bat on top into his mouth blithely — it must be a cheat day — in the manner of someone who has absolutely no fucking clue that he’s surrounded by creatures of the night.

Sirius’s fangs are out on full display as well. He’s really gone for it: black velvet smoking jacket, linen shirt with the frilliest neck she’s seen in at least a century, and not only a cape but a truly stupid one with a flashy lining of metallic zebra print.

Fucking _capes._ What a loser.

“Oh, I’m sure we have plenty in common.” Pansy grimaces at Sirius, not bothering to hide the challenge in her eyes.

Harry glances between them, his face crumbling in confusion.

“Let me” — Sirius stubs out his clove in a crystal ashtray, then turns to offer her his arm — “give our Pansy a tour.” When Harry starts to scramble behind them, Sirius raises a hand. “Harry, stay and look after our guests. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.”  
  
Something dark flickers over Harry’s features, as though perhaps that were exactly what he’s worried about, but he shutters it quickly and gives them a half-hearted smile. “Come find me,” he calls to Pansy, a bit desperately.

“Oh, I will.” Pansy blows him a kiss, mortifying but necessary to the charade.

Sirius’s grip on her arm tightens as he hauls her up the stairs, out of Harry’s view.  
  
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she hisses.

“Oh, that’s rich.” Sirius chuckles bitterly through gritted teeth. _“You’re_ upset. We need to have a bit of a chat, you and I.”

He pulls her into a dark room, a study or a library probably, dimly lit and full of heavy teak. He bolts the door then turns to her, a narrow sneer revealing his fangs.

 _“Pansy.”_ It’s ironic on his lips, an accusation running under it. He gestures to a cognac leather barrel chair then struts about turning on lamps with leisurely, cat-like grace, before he returns, dropping into the chair next to hers. “We have a fucking problem.”

Sirius has propped his boots up on the coffee table, slouching back with his hands behind his head. He casts side-eyes at her, and she bites back a snort, refusing to dignify his bloody _drama_ with a reaction.

“You can’t have him.” Her voice is petulant, aggressively American. She has worked hard for this vocal fry. There are several centuries between her and those old English vowels and she will not let _him_ pull her back onto them.

“Darling, I already _have_ him. I’m his legal guardian. And no one is eating my godson. Not on my watch.”

“Uh, no. He’s definitely nineteen. I checked, I don’t drain minors. He’s not under your jurisdiction anymore.”

Sirius laughs darkly, a rancorous, snarling affair. “How _conscientious_ of you, love, but I’m afraid it’s not getting through to you.” His teeth flash, his eyes fierce and angry. “Harry is off-limits.”

She snorts. “What’s stopping me?”

It’s the wrong move; no sooner has she said it than he’s up and lunging at her. No impulse control, this one. He _must_ be new. Ten years or less, and she’d bet money. Vampires don’t stay this self-destructive for long without being reduced to piles of smoldering ash.  
  
She holds up one sharp nail just as his hand closes around her wrist and gives him her very best “stop this shit immediately or there will be hell to pay” stare. She has had approximately three hundred years to perfect it, and it is one of her greatest skills.

Miraculously, he freezes, his face inches away from hers.

“If I were you,” she whispers, looking him dead in the eye, “I would think very carefully about your end game here, newbie.” The hypnotic arts don’t really work on other vampires, but there’s no reason not to try. Besides, there’s always something to be said for seduction, for the powers of natural charm.  
  
His thumb is still pressing against her skin, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t break eye contact. His breath is coming hard, but he doesn’t say a word. She presses on. “Think about it. How many — at least a hundred? — fucking kids downstairs. All of them with cameras in their pockets. There’s no way you keep a stake in the house, or any of that shit; that’s a liability. What are you going to do? Break some furniture? Fist-fight your _godson_ _’s_ crush? Run her out of the house screaming while she” — Pansy produces a compelling artificial whimper with a wicked grin — “starts to cry? That’s not a good look, asswipe. And even if you could kill me, which I doubt…” She presses her free hand against his chest for effect, and it seems to work; he’s still frozen, eyes wide. “What would _Harry_ think about that? I can’t imagine murdering me would do any favors to your relationship.”

His grip on her arm loosens and he steps back from her, looking dazed. His cape is askance, and instead of adjusting it, he casts it off.

He looks much better in just the smoking jacket, but that’s neither here nor there.

“I’ve invested three fucking weeks of simpering into your precious godson. If I do you a solid and desist, _if_ _…”_ Pansy steps into him again, grasps a handful of the frill of his stupid shirt. Gives her words time to sink in. Twines the fabric slowly around her finger. Watches him gulp. “If I do that for you… what’s in it for me?”

* * *

“What did I tell you?” Sirius has somehow become barefoot, his black boots cast about the rug at odd angles. He’s on the floor, leaned back against the foot of the leather sofa. Sprigs of dark chest hair peep out from his cravat collar, which has come mostly untied.

“Fine, fine, you win.” Pansy sucks petulantly at her third blood bag and wrinkles her nose at him. Sirius has provided her with a plastic straw, as though it were a Capri Sun. “It’s the good shit.”

She’s on the floor too, her legs folded under her, though how they both ended up down here she can’t exactly recall. Somewhere halfway into the second bag, things got slightly hazy. She hasn’t fed so indulgently in decades, hasn’t felt anything close to this kind of buzz in over fifty years. It is its own distinct altered state, a heady rush of warmth and satisfaction.

It feels — almost — like really being alive.

She stretches one leg out and the spike of her four-inch heel catches at the hem of his pant leg, which is… unexpectedly interesting. “But you have to admit it’s not the same. Not being able to sink your fangs into something.”

Thumping bass vibrates through the floor. Various squeals and whoops break through the Nina Simone album he’s put on the vintage record player. Downstairs, Harry is probably crying into his light beer, but even as the party rages on below, the mood in the study is somehow hushed. Cozy. Intimate, even. 

“I’ve done experiments,” Sirius concedes and stands with lazy elegance, effortlessly freeing himself from her shoe. The way he takes his time and knows he looks good doing it is extremely vexing. He pulls a particular volume from the bookshelf, and with a quiet rumble, the shelf rotates to reveal a hidden cabinet containing a mini-fridge. After a rummaging about in it for a moment, he tosses something at her without warning.

She raises a futile, passive hand and misses completely. A blood orange rolls to a stop against her bag.

“No.” Her eyes widen in dawning horror. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did!” He waggles his brow roguishly, and he should be ridiculous, but he’s trouble. Now that he’s not wearing the cape and trying to stop her from turning Harry into her late-night snack, now that she’s warm and sedate and more than mildly blood-addled, she can see clearly that he’s trouble. “Try it.”

The orange is cold, with a perfect hole at the top where he’s injected it. She uses a sharp nail to pierce the peel, teases it off in a delicate spiral before sinking her fangs into the fruit. He really fucking did it; he actually filled the damned thing with blood.

The experience is confusing, the feeling not wholly unlike a true bite; it provides partial satisfaction. But it’s cold where it should be warm, yielding where it should be slightly firm. The acidity of the orange is quenching, but the sweetness cuts the salty tang of the blood, and she finds herself missing the undiluted sharpness. She doesn’t like it. She doesn’t think she likes it. She doesn’t think she wants more. And yet, she takes a second bite. And then a third.

Sirius laughs, and it’s such a warm sound, and he’s sinking down to the rug very close to her, canting almost over her, leaning knowingly into her space. His eyes are fiery, somehow, even though they are gray, and he’s undeniably handsome in such a regrettably appealing way, like … rebel son of an earl who ran off to be a pirate handsome. Or something. In any case, trouble. Trouble. “What do you think?” he asks, too close, too low, too alluringly for him not to be trying to work his hypnosis on her too.

She props herself up on her hand, not thinking about how this will bring her even closer to him. Not thinking much at all, really, at this point. But she must not wobble, must not waver, must never show weakness. Her dark lips remain fixed in a tight line, though she’s sure her smile must be spilling over around the corners, out through her eyes. “I don’t like that it’s sweet.” She aims for disdain, but it rings false. “Or cold.”

He swipes a finger over the corner of her mouth, catching a glistening drop of the blood-juice. It catches the light, a beguiling translucent glow. Without thinking, Pansy darts her tongue out, licking it from his finger, and regrets it immediately, because Sirius looks even more self-assured now, which is something neither Pansy nor the world-at-large needs.

His finger is still in her mouth and he runs it, almost tenderly, over the sharp architecture of her fang. The very fact that this is _new,_ that it’s something no one else has ever done, makes her shudder. “There are other things to bite into.” She can feel his breath on her lips as he speaks.

“That’s not the same either.” But even as she says it, she feels the naked _want,_ absent so long that it feels foreign, almost novel, making itself known somewhere below her rib cage, in a place where she has grown accustomed to feeling mostly emptiness.

She feels old, very old, because she is, even if her body is permanently nineteen, taut and perky in all of the right places even as her soul sags. She’s tired, so tired, not because it’s midnight but because it’s the 21st century. She’s full, really full, and really fucking blood-high, and it muddles her thinking. And she’s so, so, so _bored,_ and that must be why she’s actually considering sex with another vampire, sex without an external reward or motivation, as though she hadn’t already figured out the most effective and satisfying ways to get herself off a hundred years prior.

Although vibrators were certainly a technological advance she can appreciate.

Anyway, it must be all of that, definitely not Sirius’s restless charisma or unfathomably good bone structure or the way he’s looking burningly into her with those gorgeous eyes, though none of that does anything to decrease the temptation.

He gives her an appraising glance, strokes his thumb over her chin. “How long has it been?”

“Since what?”

“Since you’ve fucked someone without killing them after.”

She’s too tired to lie or spar, so she tilts her head, performing some quick mental math. “Ah… 243 years, give or take. No, shit, that’s right. 216? 215?”

“That’s a long time.” He draws his lips over her neck, letting his fangs drag lightly over her skin.

Fuck. It _has_ been a long time.

Determined to wrest back some control, she pulls at the tie of his shirt, bends her breath close to his ear. “How long has it been for you?”

“Since what?” He pulls back to look at her, blinks. “Killing and fucking aren’t related for me, Moony gets me the blood bags —”

“Since you were turned.”

“Oh, that.” Sirius closes his eyes, leans his forehead against hers and sighs. “Six years. Three months. And nineteen days.”

“I knew it.” Pansy smirks. “You’re green.”

“Hey, I know things.” He sticks his tongue out at her, which does nothing to improve his point.

She reaches out for a dark tendril of his hair, curls it around her finger. “I’m sure you do, but you’re still green.”

“So teach me.”

She finds herself expecting a crashing quality to the kiss, clashing and jostling and wrestling.

But it isn’t like that, not even when it gets heated.

There’s something lush and lazy about the way they tumble all the way to the floor, about the way his full lips slowly meet hers, and it is so different to do this sated instead of hungry. He kisses her like someone who has all the time in the world, because in a way, he does.

And so does she.

Except she ends up losing patience with his fiddly shirt and tears off two buttons. She rolls him onto his back and kisses her way down his neck, across his bare collarbone. Downstairs, the party rallies itself from a lull as a collective roar goes up over, possibly, beer pong. Nina croons over the distant strains of Old Town Road. Sirius moans. Pansy finds her way to meatiest part of his shoulder and sinks her teeth in until they hit bone, until he yells her name.

She was right, it isn’t _exactly_ the same.

But it’s pretty fucking satisfying.

* * *

Downstairs, Harry is submerged in a monstrous velour sofa, staring morosely into his beer. The party is winding down. A drunk girl with cleavage spilling out of her pizza costume has synced her phone to the speakers and is playing Shape of You at a moderate volume, swaying with her eyes closed like she’s at a Portishead concert. The ceiling is still quaking, but to Harry’s horror, it is no longer from the bass. The sounds from upstairs are unmistakable and they’ve been happening for well over an hour.

“Jesus.” Ron looks at the ceiling beseechingly, then gives Harry’s shoulder an awkward pat. “Fuck, bro. That’s fucked up.” 

Harry takes of his glasses and presses his palms into his eye sockets with a groan, forgetting all about his zombie make-up until his hands come away dark with three separate shades of Ginny’s eye shadow.

He reaches for a tissue and scrubs at the line of fake blood dripping from his lip.

“Yup,” he says, with an air of futility. “Yup.”

Ron is watching him cautiously. “You going to be okay, man?”

“It sucks.” Harry shrugs. “But I’ll be fine. Eventually.” He pulls together a rueful smile. “’Tis but a flesh wound.” 

* * *

“But you’re so much _fun,_ _”_ Sirius says, tracing languid circles over her stomach. “Are you sure you have to leave town?”

“Absolutely.” She groans, imagining what a nightmare it would be to try to pick off the rest of the track team one by one while dodging a sulking Harry and enduring lectures on ethical vampirism from Sirius every time she wanted to fuck.

“We can do this again though, right?” He props himself up and bobs over her, puppyish in his enthusiasm.

She purses her lips, considering. “Maybe in fifty years.”

Sirius squints, shaking his head. “I can’t tell if you’re having me on or if you’re sincere.”

Pansy quirks her lip, a shadow of a smile. “Oh, I’m dead serious.” She sees the joke, far too dumb to tolerate, forming in his eyes before he can even open his mouth. “No,” she says, swatting him on the chest. “Don’t you dare, or I’ll make you wait a hundred years.”

It works like a charm.

Pansy stumbles home at four-thirty in the morning, secures the blackout curtains, and sleeps all day.

By ten that night, she’s cruising up the 5 in her cherry-red Porsche with the specially tinted windows. In the trunk, her travel safe, housing the cool hundred grand she’s managed to pilfer from her victims. In the backseat, a blue beer cooler filled with a six week supply of O negative and seven blood-filled blood oranges, courtesy of Sirius. In her phone, the burner number for Sirius’s friend, a werewolf phlebotomy tech who can apparently connect her to a shadowy national network of black-market blood, in case she ever wants to, as Sirius puts it, “get clean.”

And of course, she has Sirius’s number as well. He insisted.

She drives, following the lantern of the waxing moon as it bobs up above the tree line. For the first time in a long time, a long long long time, the night feels new.

Beneath the hem of her last night’s dress, her fishnets are ripped and a meandering row of puncture marks trails down each of her inner thighs. She looks down at them briefly, running her tongue over her fangs, and smiles.

She did trade out the stilettos for a pair of sensible black kitten heels, though. Road trip shoes.

Pansy presses the gas pedal all the way to the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Happy Halloween! 
> 
> Check out the collection for all Fall Fumble 2020 works! 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr as grangerdangerfics.


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